Chapter 78: The Throne of Eternal Ecstasy
Time lost meaning in the drip and pulse of the grove.
We didn’t leave the bench. We couldn’t. Our bodies, packed with the grove’s essence, felt heavy and rooted. The slight swell of our bellies was a constant, warm pressure. But the hunger, that deep, hollow itch, began to stir again within an hour. It wasn’t a sharp need. It was a slow, insistent tide, rising from our overfilled wombs themselves.
“It’s not enough,” Cora murmured, her voice thick. She shifted on the bench, a slick sound. “It’s inside but it’s… quiet. It needs to be alive.”
Elara grunted in agreement. She pushed herself up on her elbows, looking back at the fading, sap-smeared shafts. “This was a good start. But a queen doesn't get fucked just once. She takes what she needs. Forever.”
The word hung in the sweet, thick air. Forever.
The grove responded to the concept, not just the words. The bioluminescence in the mushrooms brightened, syncing to a slow, rhythmic pulse that matched the newfound heartbeat in my own lower belly. The bench beneath us trembled.
This time, the change wasn’t violent. It was a languid, certain transformation. The wood grew warmer, softening and reshaping itself around our prone forms. It rose at the back, forming a high, supportive rest that cradled our spines. The handholds and forehead rests melted away, replaced by smooth armrests and a headrest woven from living vine.
We were being reclined. Positioned. Enthroned.
The most dramatic change happened between our legs. The three shafts, which had softened and retracted, didn't just re-emerge. The bench itself split open, and from the living wood and fungal flesh, new growths ascended. These were different. They were attached, permanent fixtures of the throne. They were thicker at the base, veins of vibrant gold and deep blue pulsing within them, and they tapered to obscene, specialized tips.
They didn't wait for a command. They knew their purpose.
Elara’s ridged shaft found her waiting, tight entrance with a nudge. She sighed, a long, satisfied sound, as it began a slow, perpetual slide into her, each ridge a familiar, welcome catch and release. “That’s more like it,” she breathed, settling back.
Cora’s gasp was one of pure, overwhelming acceptance as the gargantuan width pressed against her, not thrusting, but applying constant, inexorable pressure, stretching her endlessly as it sought to occupy her completely. It was a full, unrelenting possession.
Mine, the flared and ribbed one, pressed up and in, a seamless, sinking fit. The breach was easier this time, my body memorizing the shape, but the sensation of it filling my cervix and lodging deep in my womb was no less intense. It was just… home.
The throne adjusted. Gentle, cradling tendrils of warm moss and soft vine curled around our ankles, our thighs, our wrists. They weren't restraints. They were caresses, a supportive embrace that held us in perfect, open presentation. The message was clear: you will not need to move. You will only need to receive.
And then the throne began to move.
A deep, mechanical undulation started at its base, a slow, rocking pulse that pushed the embedded shafts in and out of us at a lazy, relentless pace. Out. A fraction of an inch. A constant, milking rhythm.
“Oh fuck yes,” Elara chanted, her head lolling back. “Just like that. Just keep fucking us. Never stop.”
The pace was maddening. It was too slow to bring a sharp climax, but too persistent to ever let the sensation fade. It was a plateau of perpetual penetration. Our bodies, hypersensitive and hyper-fertile, sang with it. The feeling of being endlessly, routinely filled triggered a low-grade but continuous orgasm that thrummed in our cores, a static buzz of pleasure that tightened our muscles and kept our breaths shallow.
Our milk responded to this new, eternal rhythm. It didn’t spray in torrents now. It seeped, then streamed in steady, golden rivulets from our nipples, running down the curves of our breasts to pool in the hollows of our collarbones or drip onto the throne, where the hungry moss drank it in.
“Look at me,” Cora whimpered, her hands roaming over her rounded belly. “I can feel it sloshing inside. Every time it pushes in, I feel it press up into my guts.” The massive shaft within her shifted with the throne’s motion, visibly moving underneath her skin.
The throne’s rhythm began to subtly vary. It would slow to a near standstill, leaving us aching and clenched around the invasive presence, then push forward with a slightly deeper, more emphatic stroke, punching a collective gasp from our lips.
“It’s learning,” I managed to say, my voice strained. “It’s learning what makes us twitch.”
“Then teach it, Amy,” Elara groaned. “Tell it to fuck us harder. We’re not made of glass.”
I focused through the haze. I didn’t speak. I pushed the thought, the need, down through my spine into the throne. More.
The response was immediate. The undulating pace quickened. The strokes became definitive, assertive. The sound in the clearing changed—a wet, rhythmic slapping of flesh against fungal wood, our staggered moans providing a ragged melody.
“Yes! Right there, you beautiful fucking thing!” Elara yelled, her body taut against the vines.
Cora was beyond words. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, her huge body jiggling with each firm, deep drive of the shaft that impaled her.
For me, the spiral ridges were the world. Each one scraped a line of fire through my clutching channel on the outstroke, only to be buried again on the in. The flare at the tip kissed my deepest part over and over, a relentless, battering demand.
The throne wasn't just fucking us now. It was breeding us in earnest, with intent. The pulses deep within the shafts started again, but this time they weren't a finale. They were punctuation. A hot, thick jet of sap would erupt inside our wombs mid-stroke, making us cry out, our bellies accepting the fresh deposit, the existing weight within us growing denser, heavier.
Jet after jet, stroke after stroke. The throne pumped us full even as it never ceased its motion. Our distentions became more pronounced, our lower abdomens softly rounded, full of the grove’s living potential.
The vines tightened their loving hold. We were trapped in the most exquisite way. Pinned. Used. Continuously seeded. Our milk flowed in endless streams, a golden sacrifice that fed the very thing that enslaved us with pleasure.
Elara let out a laugh that was half sob. “Forever, huh? I can fucking live with that.”
The sun dipped, twilight bled into night, and the grove’s bioluminescence became our only light. The throne’s rhythm never faltered. The slow, deep fucking continued. The warm, heavy fullness inside us became a permanent state of being.
We were no longer women on a bench. We were fixtures of the grove. Living, breathing, feeling thrones. Our reign was eternal. Our purpose was perpetual.
And our only duty was to be filled.